


Always a Catch

by melonbutterfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-27
Updated: 2009-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The muscles in his legs and shoulders and arms are tingling as if tiny, electrical worms had settled in them, and he knows he's going to be stiff tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always a Catch

Dean turns the music so lout it's rebounding in his ears; a shrilly ringing so unpleasant it almost makes him cringe, but he prefers it that way. Leaning back, he clasped his hands behind his head and stares up into the sky—except he can't see it because the roof of the car is in the way, but that's also something he likes. Knowing the sky is out there and he can have it, look at it all night if he wants to, but also knowing that he doesn't _have_ to.

Except that he does, of course. But sometimes…

The muscles in his legs and shoulders and arms are tingling as if tiny, electrical worms had settled in them, and he knows he's going to be stiff tomorrow. The air is cold and he hasn't turned the heater on, but that's only another thing he doesn't care much about; he can add it to the list of all the other stuff.

That's when the buzzing in his temples starts; like a low background noise, the second bass in the back of a song that you don't notice unless you want to, he can't ignore it once he notices it's there, but that doesn't necessarily mean he has to acknowledge it, either. He could give it a name, he knows that; maybe migraine or maybe just headache or, if he liked that kind of psychological stuff, guiltlonelinessangerpain. But he doesn't like that kind of stuff, and he doesn't give it a name, and so the buzz is just a buzz.

The bass of the song he's listening to—or maybe not; he wouldn't be able to name neither artist nor title right now, only knows it feels loud and powerful and aggressive—vibrates in his chest, in his heart, and he likes to imagine the bag of blood in it—two cupful, maybe—carrying every note into every cell of his body, the tips of his fingers, the insides of his knees. Would his blood taste of music, if it could? Sometimes he wonders.

But of course, in reality he knows his blood is just blood, and it tastes of iron and copper. When he had been a boy still, he had found that taste exciting; it felt like adventure, like action, like actually _doing_ something. Sometimes he had lain in bed, on his right side, eyes closed and a penny in his cheek, pretending he had been doing _something_ and was now getting his well-deserved rest, instead of… everything but.

Now, there are times he wished he would still be able to do that. Lick pennies and believe _doing something_ was brilliant.


End file.
